


The Temptress and Her Tempter

by PickledTeeth



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Blood and Injury, Bounty Hunters, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, I am dipping my hand into the reader insert cesspool, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader Insert, Shootouts, Swearing, Takes place before the Blackwater mess, Violence, here I go, probably 1897, reader is female, robberies, wish me luck boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23395618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PickledTeeth/pseuds/PickledTeeth
Summary: "A woman as a gun for hire?" The man spits out a glob of blood, shows bloodied teeth as he smiles, "Must've hit my head something fierce.""Don't matter the gender," Y/N says. She feels satisfaction when the man's face turns to dread as she points her shotgun at his skull, "If you can hold a gun and shoot a trigger, anybody is willing to hire."-- -- -- --In which you, the reader, are a gun for hire in Blackwater
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	The Temptress and Her Tempter

**Author's Note:**

> I've been playing that romanceable choices game The Arcana, and I really love the concept of the tarot deck, and this idea has been floating around in my head for a while now, so I thought why not.
> 
> All definitions on the cards are literally copy and pasted from the web.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The Fool** : The Fool represents new beginnings, having faith in the future, being inexperienced, not knowing what to expect, having beginner's luck, improvisation and believing in the universe.

The Blackwater bar is, as usual, busy as hell. 

Patrons of all shapes and sizes roam around the small, square shaped building. Up in the rafters, working ladies cooled themselves with expensive looking Chinese folding fans, watching the steady flow of patrons walk in and out of the bar through mascara covered eyelashes. Men sit around flat poker tables with chips and cards stuffed in fists. Their voices get loud when one wins the entire pot.

"Eat _shit_ , boys!"

Y/N watches out of the corner of her eye from where she's sitting by the bar counter. Six men sit around the single poker table on the main floor, lit up by lamps and burning cigarette buds. The head of the table has two women on either side, wearing less clothing than even the women up in the rafters. The men shout and curse and threaten with fists and knives, but it never accelerates past harshly thrown words.

Good. 

The place is already a mess. Peanut shells litter the floor, specks of blood and a few teeth scattered on the floorboards from a previous fist fight over cheating at blackjack. Beer makes puddles by everyone's shoes, spilt from drunk hands and slow fingers. Y/N watches as working ladies regularly drag red-faced, drunk men off into the shadows, disappearing for more than a few minutes at a time.

Men are already intoxicated, the bar is packed, and it was only five in the afternoon. 

Noisy, rowdy, it was Y/N's type of place. 

The influx of sharp, loud noises helped drown out any thoughts, and provided a quiet place for her to do her daily paper reading.

"Miss Y/N! The usual?" The barkeep asks over the noise of the piano, his hands wiping at his apron, already stained with dark splashes of alcohol from patron's slippery fingers. He's got a black handlebar mustache, slicked greasy hair, obviously kept down with product, and brown eyes. He's owned this bar longer than Y/N's been in Blackwater. 

"That would be lovely." Y/N says with a smile, untucking her newspaper from under her arm. He's a nice man, always feeding Y/N a nice flow of work when she needs the money, kept her on her toes with the latest gossip in town. She couldn't care any less for that, but it brought a smile to his old face when she listened to him talk. 

The barkeep smiles and stoops down to grab at waiting glasses under the counter. Y/N goes back to reading while waiting for her daily shot of alcohol. The first headline that catches her eye jumps out at her with blocky letters, exclaiming importance and attention. 

_ WANTED: _

_ DUTCH VAN DER LINDE _

_ WANTED FOR SEVERAL CAPITOL MURDERS AND UNLAWFUL ROBBERY OF BANKS ALL ACROSS AMERICA _

_ KNOWN TO BE ARMED AND DANGEROUS _

At first, the name doesn't exactly strike fear into Y/N's heart. Dutch Van Der Linde of the Van Der Linde gang sounded as though he were a wannabe Butch Cassidy trying to make it big in 1897. She reads it over again, over and over until the wanted section of the paper is glued in her mind. Still, she is not stricken with fear at the very thought, or glance of the name Dutch Van Der Linde.

Though, she knows that most patrons in the bar would turn tail and flee just at the mere mention of Dutch and his  infamous  gang of wannabe radicals.

The barkeep slides over a few shots of hard whiskey, raw enough to make her throat burn and stomach warm. She smiles at him, flips a few extra coins his way (which he pockets with thankful words) and  goes back to reading her paper, turning the thin page over to a rather interesting headline;

_ PINKERTON AGENCIES DEPLOYED ADMIST GROWING POPULATION OF GANGS AND OUTLAWS, PRESIDENT HOPES THIS ERA COMES TO END _

_ This morning on June 18th, 1898 at exactly 10:15am, President William McKinley publicly announced that multiple Pinkerton agencies were deployed in an attempt at downsizing the amount of gangs and outlaws known in the United States of America. Thousands of highly trained men work around the clock to- _

"Well, fancy seeing a woman reading the paper." A man's gruff voice appears beside her. The presence slips into the stool beside her. Y/N doesn't turn initially, tries to focus on her paper instead. It's worked before in the past; ignore them and they'll show themselves out. 

But the presence doesn't leave, stays seated in the wired barstool. He's staring at her, Y/N can tell; her skin prickles uneasily, and she can see out of the corner of her eye that he's leaning on his elbows against the bar.

The epiphany of relaxation. 

He's _definitely_ not going anywhere.

Reluctantly, Y/N puts down her newspaper, folds it neatly on the smooth wooden countertop of the bar counter. She turns her head to face him.

The man is on the larger side, shoulders broad, jaw strong, and eyes confident. He's wearing a blue flannelled shirt that looks as though it hasn't seen a wash in years, and worn-out jeans, probably faded out by multiple falls off horses. Average rough and tumble cowboy, a type she's seen many times. 

"You ain't gonna turn tail and run outta here? Thought men were scared of women reading and learning." Y/N jokes haphazardly. She reaches in front of her to grab a waiting shot of whiskey, glass cool against her work hardened hands, and takes a sip. The familiar burn seeps down her throat. 

"See you're reading the political side of the paper." The man observes her folded newspaper, eyes flickering across the bolded title of Pinkerton agents being scattered across America. Y/N can't see any emotion in those greenish eyes.

Usually, people were filled with relief at the mere mention of safety coming down in the form of highly trained Pinkerton men. Most people would be happy to see that the government is finally answering their pleas and cries for help regarding the local hillbillies and radicals.

Not this man.

He didn't even seem slightly interested at the prospect of peace sweeping through the nation. 

Odd.

"Pinkertons." The man finally concludes. Leans back just a tad in his seat, as far as he could in a barstool without a back, "So the government is finally listening to the people."

"About damn time." Y/N speaks, takes another swig of whiskey, the liquid cool against her tongue, "Been too long since the government has decided to help the people, work with them."

She sets down her smooth glass, watches the swirling liquid make its rounds around the circular cup, "Pinkertons are just the first step in controlling gangs."

"And what do you think?" The man rumbles like a thunderstorm over dry plains. Like he's gargling marbles in the back of his throat. 

"What do I think about what? Gangs? Pinkertons? Or politics?" Y/N counters. She straightens in her seat, the old steel barstool creaking under the new pressure, and she adds in a mocking tone, "In a political standoff, I think you should talk to the man about that. Unfortunately, as a woman," Y/N gestures to her form with sarcastic expressive hands, "I do not have much knowledge in that field."

"But you talk as if you know what you're saying ma'am." The man chuckles, "I think I'd have a more civil conversation with you than any man here in this bar."

"Is that why you moseyed along over here?" Y/N asks, "To have a polite, _civil _conversation with a woman who ain't a working girl?"

"Thought you looked interestin' is all." The man says back. He smiles, "I'm waiting on someone. I'd rather talk to an interesting woman than wait in silence."

Y/N thinks he's got guts to try and strike up a conversation with a woman minding her own business, armed to the teeth with guns and knives, reading the newspaper. 

Well, _trying_ to read.

"Well, now you have." Y/N says, and she lifts up her newspaper again. Covers her face, pointedly turns towards the bar stand to signal the conversation was _over_. 

The man speaks before she can even rest her eyes on the damn thing. 

"You never answered my question," The man observes, "About your opinion on gangs."

Y/N turns the corner of her newspaper down, meeting his eyes over the edge. He's smiling slightly. 

"You never specifically said anything about gangs."

"Now I'm askin' you  _ specifically_." 

_He sure is damn annoying_ ,  Y/N thinks grimly. She stares at that ridiculous, shit-eating grin he has plastered on his face. 

"Tell me your name first, cowboy."

"Tacitus Kilgore," The man replies smoothly. It sounds fake, though the way he delivers it, confident and cocky, has Y/N believing otherwise. 

"A biblical name?" Y/N can't keep the surprised tone out of her voice. She folds her newspaper down neatly (again) and sets it back on the smooth dark wood of the bar counter, "Ain't Tacitus supposed to mean quiet? Secretive? _Silent_?" 

Tacitus blushes a bright red, the definition of embarrassment with how the way his body shifts backwards, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, "Can't help the name my parents gave me, ma'am." 

The words come out mumbled, unsure, unconfident, a little anxious. It suggests he did not know what his own name actually meant. Y/N fights the smile creeping onto her face, turning fully around to face him. 

They're quiet. The silence is more deafening than the furious piano music playing in the background. 

Suddenly, the man shakes his head and clears his throat, "I held up my end of the deal. I think it's only fair if you tell me your name."

"I thought you wanted to know my opinion on gangs, cowboy?" Y/N sneers in a playful tone, fingers tapping against the newspaper, sitting forgotten on the counter. Tacitus chuckles.

"I still do. Seein' as you know my name, I think I should know yours."

Y/N straightens, lifts her chin, regards him for a moment. Y/N knows in her business that a name could be dangerous. Put her at risk for a potential attack. Being a gun for hire had its perks, sure, though, it also was dangerous. Dangerous in a way that meant she couldn't trust other people, couldn't hand out names and personal information. 

She stares at him. Studies his posture, clothes, face. He doesn't seem the dangerous type. More a rancher than a 'shoot first ask questions later' type man. 

"Y/N," Y/N says finally. She licks her lips, "Y/N L/N."

Tacitus smiles, "Ain't so bad, was it?"

"It was painful."

The bell above the saloon door rings, but it is promptly drowned out by the noise filling the building. Y/N turns just in time to see two burly men walk in. They both carry more guns than necessary, both eliciting the appearance of outlaws.

Neither look like friendly patrons.

Y/N stiffens, lays her hand on her concealed revolver. She prepares for a potential gunfight, a potential robbery. 

One is Mexican. He has a moustache and goatee, black in colour, with coffee coloured eyes. A cigar hangs out of his mouth, a steady stream of smoke twirling into the air, and a bandolier strapped to his chest. It's filled with enough ammunition to last for several days. 

The other, who Y/N guesses is his partner, is a big man with a receding hairline, bushy beard, sharp nose, small eyes. A large brown overcoat covers his broad shoulders, though Y/N can see the handle of a pistol peeking out by his belt. 

They both look as though they're about to shoot the place up. Angry scowls, piercing stares, curled lips, they scan the saloon. Y/N knows that look.

They're searching for someone. 

Their eyes land on Tacitus, who seems none the wiser to the two men.

"There he is," The smaller man says in an almost sighing manner. Almost a tone of exasperation. They start making their way over, picking through people, shoving past men. The closer they get, the more tense Y/N becomes. 

Tacitus, however, is not as nervous or anxious as Y/N. He hears their footsteps, and twirls around in his seat, coming face to face with the two men, and greets them in a neutral voice, "Javier, Bill."

Now Y/N has names. They sound oddly familiar, like she's seen or heard them before. But where...?

The smaller man, Javier, nods towards Y/N before she has a chance to think too much. 

"Who's she?"

They talk like she's not even there. Anger bubbles up within her, fingers wrapping tightly around her revolver. She eyes them up, eyes _both_ of them from head to toe, noting weapons, knives, concealed handguns. 

Sighing slightly, she lets her revolver go entirely. No use starting a gunfight over hurt feelings.

"A lady who just wants to read her newspaper," Y/N finally answers in a biting tone, answers before Tacitus does, "Ain't that right _Tacitus_?"

When she says his name, the other two men stiffen and perk up.

"Ah yes, Tacitus," Bill says a little awkwardly, "Sorry we're late."

Y/N stares at the long faced man with a scrutinizing gaze. He didn't seem know Tacitus' name. 

"Ain't no worries," Tacitus speaks before Y/N has a chance to question Bill, and he stands up, "Had good company."

Y/N studies Bill with a scrutinizing eye, though he doesn't seem to notice her. 

"I entertained you at the least, Mr. Kilgore." Y/N finally turns to Tacitus. 

Tacitus tips his hat to her, and she does the same. 

"Looking forward to meeting you again."

Y/N can't help the smile, "I have a funny feeling it'll be soon."

She watches as the three men turn and pick their way through the crowd, out the door. She watches him talk with his two buddies before they mount up on horses hitched just outside. 

"Who were those men?" The bartender appears suddenly in front of her. He's wiping a glass clean with a speckled brown towel, eyes fixed on the men as they trot off out of view of the dust stained window.

"Hell if I know." Y/N says. She grabs her paper, folds it open, and continues reading. 

_Tacitus Kilgore_.

What an odd name.


End file.
